


Our Careless Heads with Roses Bound

by youworeblue



Series: Bloodied and Broken [7]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Gen, More Pairings to Come - Freeform, Multi, but probably also angst?, fluff fluff and lots of fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-13 06:20:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29148870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youworeblue/pseuds/youworeblue
Summary: (Title: fromTo Althea, from Prisonby Richard Lovelace)Drabbles for Fluffuary2021 (@iron_angel and @crackinglamb) and 14 Days of DA Lovers (14DALovers).Assorted pairings, mostly Solavellan with warrior Inquisitor fromDead Pasts, Dread Futures.
Relationships: Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford, Female Lavellan/Cullen Rutherford, Female Lavellan/Solas, Fen'Harel | Solas/Female Lavellan, Fenris & Male Hawke (Dragon Age), Fenris/Male Hawke, Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus, Lavellan & Solas
Series: Bloodied and Broken [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1969189
Comments: 10
Kudos: 14
Collections: A Dragon Age Valentine's 2021





	1. Flower Crowns

**Author's Note:**

> I don't want to confuse anyone (it's definitely not necessarily canon with Dead Pasts, Dread Futures) aaand I can't be held to schedules. But. Here we go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 1: Flirting (Fluffuary) + Wildflowers (14DALovers)  
> Pairing: Solavellan  
> Rating: tame fluff
> 
> (Don't know if any of this counts as flirting uwu i tried)

Ixchel had not exactly planned on returning to Crestwood, after all that had transpired, but when Caer Bronach came into view, she knew that she had to. Of course Charter wasn’t there, nor were most of Leliana’s more trusted agents. The fort was currently populated by an even mixture of Ferelden guards and Inquisition soldiers and scouts. The market road was quite crowded, actually, as traders from Orlais and the Marches came down and headed toward Denerim and Amaranthine.

When Solas approached her from behind and murmured in her ear to follow him, she had hesitated but for a moment. Bull wanted to talk with the scouts to assess the state of their camps out on the coast, and Dorian had pulled out his coin purse as soon as he saw the merchants arrayed about the fort’s courtyard. So, figuring she probably had some time, Ixchel turned and trailed after Solas toward whatever unknown destination he had in mind.

He led her off the road and down a steep slope to the southwest of the fort. Ixchel knew that a steep cliff would meet them soon; they had seen it in the distance from the tavern that held the dam controls. But they skirted the edge of the cliff and continued south, passing below Judith’s small farm, and kept walking. At some point, Ixchel jogged a little to draw even with Solas and hooked her elbow through his.

“It’s a beautiful day,” she prompted.

“Indeed,” he said lightly in reply. “Particularly in the absence of corpses and Regret demons.”

She tilted her head dramatically to the side and directed a sidelong glower up at her partner. “Solas.”

“Ixchel,” he replied in a decidedly unapologetic tone. The only other sign that he delighted in frustrating her was the gleam in his eye; once, perhaps, she might have been suspicious of the easygoing smile on his face, but it had become an almost permanent fixture of late. Even though she knew that beneath it was a Trickster’s cunning plot, the sight of that smile still never failed to warm her heart.

So she gave up. She leaned into his side as they walked and let her head drop against his shoulder. He chuckled and with his opposite hand reached up to pat her on the head. “Your patience will be rewarded,” he promised.

“It always is, with you.” She closed her eyes and smiled into the sun ahead of them. She could feel the waves of light washing across her face; the breeze ran fingers through her hair, and the grass was warm and springy between her bare toes. Solas was wearing leather armor today to protect his arms, and it was well-oiled and silken beneath her calloused hands. As she let him lead her, she traced with one hand the embossed leaves that detailed his vambrace.

He shifted a little, then laced their fingers together. “Here,” he said, and she opened her eyes.

The grass was tall here; it brushed her knees. But taller still were the long, purple flowers that surrounded them among these ruins.

“You aren’t wearing your crown today, princess,” Solas said. “Allow me to provide a substitute.”

“‘Princess’?” she repeated, raising her eyebrows as he pulled away from her to caress a flower stalk. “After all I’ve done to disavow a throne?”

He gave her a wider smile than before. “Ah, but I have far fewer negative associations with princesses, compared to queens, empresses, and goddesses.” He plucked the flower with its stalk and passed it to his other hand. “Particularly after coming to know Cassandra.”

Ixchel followed him and began gathering flowers herself. “But ‘Inquisitor,’ ‘Champion,’ and ‘Rogasha’ghi’lan,’ and ‘arasha’… Do I need more names, ‘ma’lath?”

Solas chuckled. “You are not only my Champion. I am not the only one who follows you as a guide in this world…”

He found a yellow flower growing amid the purple field, and he raised it for her to appreciate. It smelled tart, and its fine bristles tickled her nose. His soft laugh rang out and he chased her as she leaned back—she had gotten some pollen on her skin. She held still as he brushed it away, and then continued to hold still as he caught her chin in his hand and tilted her face up to look at him. His clear, looking-glass eyes drank in her curious, relaxed expression for a moment longer.

“But you have a power in you that is all your own, and matches mine,” he said reverently. “A beauty that only I am permitted to see. Yours is the only command I would heed…”

His words summoned a flush to her cheeks, but she squared her shoulders and drew closer. “So then are you a humble wanderer, Fen’Harel, or a scholar-prince come to woo me?” she teased.

Solas’s breath caught in his throat, as though his laugh had been shocked into silence. “What do you see?” he asked. Beneath the lilting, teasing tone was a note of shy wonder.

“You look far too good in gold to be anything but a prince,” she told him. “Let me find you your crown, then.” Ixchel raised herself onto her tiptoes to kiss him lightly, then pulled away. But he did not allow her to escape his grasp.

"When was I in gold?"

She grinned at him. "In Halamshiral, Dread Wolf," she reminded him. "You had styled yourself as my match. It was like you had seen my outfit ahead of time!"

"Ah," he purred, suddenly quite pleased at the memory. He dropped his hand to the side of her neck and brushed his fingers against the soft skin there. "I do remember. That was unintentional, though...it did please me, at the time."

Ixchel pushed against his chest. "I knew it!"

"No, you didn't," he corrected. He leaned closer. "You were worried. Afraid of what I thought of you...and still you laid your heart bare for me, spoke honestly to me..." His breath was hot on her face as he whispered now, and she blinked slowly, dizzy and warm at their proximity, at his attention. "You were in gold, too. Gold and flame and ash and blood. You had an empire beneath your heel by the end of the night..." His hands traced the shells of her ears as he drew her closer to kiss her gently. "After all you did to disavow a throne, you still deserve a crown."


	2. Devotion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluffuary Day 2 - Act of Devotion  
> 14DALovers Day 2 - A Tender Caress  
> (It may or may not also be a gift? blah whatever)  
> \--
> 
> Cullen and young!timeline ( _Two-Handed_ era) Ixchel, post-dragon.

The Herald was on her feet again, but still she was not back in fighting shape. Her journey to Val Royeaux had been uneventful, but according to Leliana's agents, she had run into trouble with both the Lord Seeker and an underground group known as the Red Jennies. Cassandra sent word that she suspected the Herald had aggravated her cracked ribs but was afraid to show it.

"There is no shame in being injured," the Seeker had written, no doubt in exasperation. "Whose idea was it to hide the extent of her injuries? Now she will never admit a weakness, and she will aggravate more than merely her ribs as she tries to love up to your impossible expectations!"

Cullen assumed that the note was meant for Leliana or Josephine, for he certainly had not been keen on their propaganda after the Herald's run-in with the dragon.

Of course, it was his job to fix it, nonetheless.

So as they prepared for her return from Val Royeaux, he tried to come up with some way of impressing upon the Herald that she needed to take care of herself. He did not want to discourage that instinct to protect. Certainly, it was a requirement of her role as Herald; she would no doubt be asked to leap into harm's way many times hence. But being a bulwark did not mean downplaying serious injuries, and it certainly did not mean worsening them. If she were to be the front line of the Inquisition against the end of the world, then she needed to be certain of her strength, and they needed to do their best to protect it.

An idea came to Cullen shortly before her arrival. He and the growing guild of armor smiths conspired to begin the project in utmost secrecy, for there was no way it would be complete before she returned and they would need to work on it almost right under her nose without her knowledge.

Every day that passed with her in the camp made Cullen more and more certain that she would find out and confront him or reject it outright, but it seemed she was otherwise preoccupied. She sought him out to complain about Chancellor Roderick, and to ask for his advice about the new recruit, Sera. She walked the grounds of Haven with him to inspect their growing forces, and mostly she went out to harvest elfroot and other herbs from the hillside for their quartermaster.

She did not spend much time at all near the forge, for which Cullen thanked the Maker.

At last, a runner brought the completed parcels to Cullen's quarters for inspection. He deemed it perfect. As perfect as it might ever be, given their limited resources—but it was a worthy set, even to the objective eye.

Cullen rebundled the parcels and hefted them all together in his arms as he headed out in search of the Herald. At this hour, she was likely to either be in her private lodging or out with Varric and Solas by the bonfire. He was a little relieved when he did not find her there; with every step that he took toward the Herald’s quarters, he felt a little more embarrassed by the load in his arms. Was it just his mind playing tricks on him, or was it getting heavier?

No. It was _not_ a gift, and it had little to do with personal sentiment. It was a necessity, a tool, a lesson.

Yet he could not help the anticipation he felt for her reaction to it.

He used the toe of his boot to knock on her door.

“One moment,” she called, and his throat tightened. He wondered if he should smile, or keep a straight face—

There was no choice; he couldn’t _help_ but smile at the sight of her.

“Good evening,” he said when she opened the door and blinked at him with wide, confused eyes. “May I set this down?”

She ushered him inside, and Cullen realized that she had no table upon which to lay out the parcels. The floor would have to do. As she closed the door behind him, he lowered himself carefully to his knees and began setting out the heavy bundles.

“What’s all this?” she asked, coming to kneel beside him.

Cullen’s lips parted to speak, but then he didn’t know what to say. He cleared his throat nervously and sat back on his heels. “Why don’t you look for yourself?” he said lightly, to buy himself a moment.

She gave him a bemused look and reached for the nearest bundle. He found that he held his breath as she pulled away the dark fabric that padded it.

Ixchel fell still as the Inquisition crest was revealed. The young Herald held the spaulder in her hands silently as she stared down at the mirror-finish—and Cullen’s mind raced. She was often quiet, self-contained, and he was as at much of a loss to see through her mask as he always was. Was she simply speechless? Was she insulted? Perhaps it was insensitive, to replace the armor she had lost so soon—maybe it reminded her of the accident—

Cullen cut off his own rambling thoughts. "Can't imagine Roderick will be able to think of a single bad thing to say to you if you're wearing this, eh?”

The young half-elf’s eyes shot up to his, and he found them shining in the lamplight above them.

“I…” She pulled the spauldron close to her chest, and he saw that her hands were white and shaking. “I… Cullen, I don’t…”

Oh, Maker’s breath. Cullen felt heat creeping up his neck at the fearful look she was giving him.

“This is from all of us, Herald,” he said quickly, holding his hands up as though to hold off whatever conclusion she might have jumped to. “The smiths, Scout Harding, and me. ”

She blinked at him, then raised a weak hand to push back her choppy hair back from her face. “I’ve never worn armor like this,” she admitted in a hoarse whisper. “I don’t even know how to put it on.”

“Oh,” Cullen said, drawing up short. He blinked at her. “Truly?”

Her cheeks darkened with a deep blush and she set down the spauldron, eyes dropping from his in embarrassment. “That claymore was my first sword. The armor I was wearing in the Hinterlands--I stole it off a dead highwayman. I’ve been a beggar all my life, Cullen. Where would I have found plate armor?” she asked sourly.

Of course, he thought, and now the heat had reached his own cheeks. He felt more the fool. But he forced himself to plow on: there was a purpose to this gift, and there was a purpose to making sure she knew how to don it properly.

“Then congratulations,” he said as gently as he could. “It is as fine a suit of armor as most knights will ever see in their lives. Let’s have you try it on.”

And he gestured for her to stand.

He directed her to put on the greaves, explaining that they were asymmetric and how to tell which way was front on each leg. Then he showed her the cuisse and pointed out the stop-rib ridges along the upper thigh that were designed to stop blows going up beneath her faulds. She quickly figured out on her own that the lower knee plates connected to the greaves themselves to lock her leg armor in place. She bent her leg to test the mobility, and he smiled to see a light growing in her eye.

“How’s it fit?” he asked.

“Like a glove,” she said, and her smile twisted her fresh scars gruesomely.

She donned the army jacket next, and he showed her which of the waxed strings on the hem to use to tie up the top of the cuisse so it wouldn’t sag.

“They’re tacky,” he explained, about the beeswax, “so the knots don’t slip.”

“Thank you,” she said.

Next was a heavy mail skirt to go over the ties, so that the armor attachments would never get cut by a glancing blow. Then he handed her a new quilted gambeson and a chain shirt. Once it came over her head, she flexed her shoulders a little and took a breath, as though suddenly feeling the weight of the armor.

He wondered, for a moment if her shoulders and ribs would be able to handle it, but she was reaching for the breastplate with an excited smile and he could not stop now. After she had hefted it in her hands for a moment, he stepped in.

“Lift your arms,” he told her, and she obeyed.

He wrapped the breastplate around her small frame, and then he reached for her uninjured hand and brought it close to her chest. “Hold it there,” he said—and then their eyes met, and Cullen realized how small her hand was beneath his. Her smile softened a little, and a question entered her gaze, but Cullen swiftly stepped behind her to hide and continue addressing the straps of her armor.

He narrated what he was doing to distract himself—this was in so many ways the same as teaching a new Templar initiate, and how many times had he done that before? Breastplate, plackart, watch your fingers for the raw edges, if you’re alone and have trouble fastening these buckles, you can wrap a rope around you to hold the plackart together while you deal with them. Tassets next, not so necessary but—if you have the protection, why not use them?

The vambraces were next, and she needed help for now to don them because of her injuries but perhaps when she had better range of motion, she might be able to tie them up to her jacket herself.

He bent to pick up a spaulder, then stepped close to help her with these last pieces. He hesitated with his hand halfway to her shoulder. Of course, she was not dressed for an outing right now; from his higher angle, he could see the angry, ugly burns that stretched even up her neck above the collar of her jackets.

Cullen’s breath caught in his throat as he reached for her, and he carefully brushed away her hair—but he could not help himself, and his fingertips ghosted against the corner of her jaw, and her earlobe. And just like that, he could not escape the warmth of her beside him. She radiated it like the sun, and it ignited the feeling that had been kindled in him this whole time. There was something nostalgic, soothing, about teaching this part of their trade. He rarely gave these lessons himself these days; it seemed good for morale to let troop leaders teach their recruits themselves.

But there was something else.

There was something about her, about making sure she was protected. It soothed whatever it was in him that still saw shadows in the corners of his rooms, that reminded him of how so many young, innocent people had looked at him with such fear in Kirkwall. He had sworn, as his ship left that terrible city behind, that he never wanted to be looked at like a predator ever again. He wanted to protect.

And he would never forget the sight of this young girl lying broken and burned and bleeding in the back of a wagon—but hopefully, protected as she would be now, he would be spared the sight again.

He had already begun to fasten the spauldron in place; thank the Maker, his fingers knew this routine even when his mind strayed so far from the task at hand. How long had they stood in silence now, since he had touched her cheek? How long had this small room been filled with nothing but the sound of their breathing and his racing heart?

Cullen finished with the last spauldron, but he was slow to remove his hands from her shoulder.

“For some time now, it’s been apparent that you would not just be our primary agent in the field…but you would be our front-line of defense, our protector,” he said softly. “After the dragon…well. It would be a disservice not to protect you in return.”


	3. Public Display of Affection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place in Chapter 7/8 of "Dead Pasts, Dread Futures."
> 
> Prompt from Fluffuary 2021

Varric had been trying to catch the Herald ever since the commotion died down, but it seemed that she had gone into hiding. First, the short young woman had stormed from the stables back to the Chantry, and Varric had known that was likely to be his last chance to catch her on her own, but the look on her face gave him pause. It had been nearly two months since the Conclave, but he still hadn’t quite gotten used to the different ways her scars could twist her features. It made her difficult to read—particularly the deep scar that ran across her nose and slightly between her eyes gave her an expression that was always somewhat a frown. Or maybe she was always frowning.

That’s why he’d settled on Sunshine, after all.

She had disappeared into the war room for several hours, and then somehow she had slipped by him on her way out. Maybe there was a back entrance he didn’t know about. Regardless, when he saw Curly, Ruffles, Lady Nightingale, and the Seeker depart, he realized that the war council had ended and the Herald had vanished.

He went wandering about Haven, then, in search of her. She wasn’t in the main camp, he ascertained, but she wasn’t over by the apothecary or the forge, either. The smiths at least had caught a glimpse of her, for she had come to get a new whetstone before setting off down the road.

Varric felt a little guilty for trying to seek her out when she clearly wanted to escape. But the handsome young Tevinter mercenary who had just arrived at camp seemed to have something important to tell the Herald in particular, and Varric was curious to see how in the world a fierce Dalish woman might react to being propositioned by a ‘Vint for anything.

If Varric were being honest, it was the fact that the Herald appeared to want solitude that made him want to seek her out all the more. He had gotten a feeling from her—same as Hawke after all that shit went down and everyone had gone their separate ways—that being alone was the exact opposite of what she needed. He wished he’d told Hawke that, before the Champion had suggested scattering to the wind. It was a stupid idea in retrospect. Strength in numbers, right? Even if the number itself was small.

And he hadn’t forgotten the way she’d gotten choked up over leaving her clan. Her family. Or how she had woken up screaming alone in her tent and seemed so unsurprised at it and the Mark’s instability in her hand. He had not forgotten how she looked down at her palm with such a forlorn resignation.

No. He didn’t think she should be alone.

He spotted her a little ways away from Haven, on the road to the Temple of Sacred Ashes. And she wasn’t alone. She was seated on a broken stone wall with her axe in hand—and Solas at her side. He was perched with one long leg outstretched in the snow and the other folded against his chest, knee to his chin.

Varric drew closer, then decided to veer off the path before he could be noticed. He had noticed how the strange, solemn apostate had his head inclined in the Herald’s direction, brows drawn low over his intent gaze. And Varric knew in a heartbeat that Chuckles was a goner.

The question was if Chuckles knew.

Varric smirked a little at the sight of the two of them together. He wouldn’t have pegged the hedge mage to be the one to fall for the prickly, stern young woman. Varric’s money had been on Curly. But Solas, Varric hadn’t seen coming, if only for propriety’s sake—how old was that guy, anyway?—as much as because…well… Weren’t opposites supposed to attract? If Varric didn’t already have someone to call Broody, both of these elves would be vying for the title.

Well. Or not.

For a small smile burst into a wide grin upon the Herald’s face as Solas said something reproving, and then it was clear that the scorn Solas was trying to show was masking genuine amusement.

The Herald suddenly jumped off of her seat on the wall. With practiced ease that belied a young life well-acquainted with warfare, she hooked her giant weapon to her back. The grace of her, the way she hardly paused as she then took off toward the frozen lake, reminded him of Fenris. There was little training in those movements. Just a lot of blood, and a lot of need.

Solas hesitated for a moment, and then, he pushed himself away from the wall and set off after the Herald. To Varric’s immense surprise, there was a smile on Solas’s face—visible even at a distance. It vanished before she glanced back to make sure he was following. They reached the edge of the lae, and then Ixchel jumped out onto the ice and slid playfully away from Solas. She slid and slipped until she was in the center of the lake, and then she whirled around to face Solas.

Varric couldn’t have imagined a more perfect moment: the Herald, so eager to turn and laugh at Solas that she lost her balance on the ice; Solas, so attentive to the girl in front of him that he was ready to catch her even without thinking. The apostate’s hand shot out to catch her bicep to steady her…

And then his other hand found her own.

The Herald froze, her forehead pressed against the apostate’s chest, her hand caught tight in his.

Then she looked up at him, and he allowed her to see his smile.

She pulled away. But her hand slipped reluctantly from his, slow to fall to her side. She took a breath to steady herself, suddenly solemn. Whatever she told him was difficult, important—a piece of herself that she offered up.

Solas was suddenly very, very still. Sometimes it unnerved Varric how still the strange, quiet man could stand. Often Varric wondered if Solas were listening to something no one else could hear. Music, perhaps. Or—the mage was smart, almost as observant as Varric himself. And he was fond of memories. So maybe when he fell still like that, he was committing every moment and sensation and surrounding and sound to memory.

And at the moment? He only had eyes for the Herald. But did she see? She ran a hand through her wind-tossed hair and then scrubbed at her face, eyes cast down as she spoke.

Her gaze settled on his chest. They seemed to both be silent for a heartbeat longer.

Varric held his breath.

She flinched, but she did not draw away, as he reached for the hand that held the Mark and turned it palm-up. He traced his fingers around the edge of the mark with strange tenderness and familiarity, and he seemed to say something that made her sad.

The Herald curled her fingers around his slowly, as though she were afraid to startle him. But Varric thought, perhaps, she had misjudged Solas. Solas was not a flighty creature. Beneath that wilting exterior, there was a strength in the hedge mage—a certainty that came not just with age, but with power. Though Varric couldn’t quite see Solas as being an experienced lover, he neither, somehow, could imagine the man running from the beautiful young woman as she so clearly worried.

But maybe the Herald saw something that no one else did.

Solas and the Herald held hands as they walked back in the direction of Haven. They walked close, like ones who were familiar to one another; her hair clung to Solas’s sweater, even. Varric hurried to make himself scarce before he was spotted, but not before he caught a good look at their faces dead-on.

“Fuck, Chuckles,” he muttered.

Because just from one glance at the pain on both their faces, he knew Ixchel would have been better off if she had been left alone.


End file.
